


Kansas is the 34th State

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Breathplay, Corsetry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred finds himself transported to a place where some things are recognizable and others are not how he knows them at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kansas is the 34th State

"Hey, Toto." Alfred smiles into the mirror and Toto, which is what he calls his reflection—as in, _I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore_ , not the pop band that had some success in the 1980s—smiles at him out of it. Alfred used to address Toto with, "Good morning," or, "Good afternoon," depending on the time of day. But after they took away his watch, he lost track not only of what day he was on but where he was in any given day. So now he sticks with non-specific greetings like "hey," "hello," and, "howdy, handsome!"

He doesn't make the _Wizard of Oz_ references anymore, either. At first he'd thought they were playing a prank on him, elaborate and subtle in all the changes from how he knew things to be, from how they themselves were. So he'd said one of the most famous lines from one of his most beloved movies. They'd all looked blankly at him and then Matthew had asked, hesitantly, "What's Kansas?" Naturally, Alfred had replied that Kansas was his 34th State, born January 29, 1861.

That's when Arthur hit him. An open-handed slap across the face, aimed at his mouth, hard enough to split his lip.

It had been more surprising than painful. Alfred had laughed a little as he'd touched his mouth, wiping away the trickle of blood with the back of his hand. "You haven't done something like that since I was a colony."

Arthur went stock-still at that. His face flushed a sudden and furious red, his hands clenched, unclenched, and clenched again, but he hadn't raised his fist to Alfred. He took a deep breath and it was like everyone else was holding theirs; even Alfred caught himself on the verge of not exhaling, but he forced himself to grin and breathe normally.

"I don't know what you're playing at, my boy," Arthur had said then, eyes boring into Alfred so that it took a fair amount of Alfred's willpower not to step back. "But I'll have none of it." He turned on heel and strode from the room without a backward glance, the others following; only Matthew had looked over his shoulder, hardly letting their eyes meet before he turned forwards again. The door shut; there was the unmistakable clang of a bolt being thrown in place on the other side.

And that's when Alfred began to understand that maybe he really _wasn't_ in Kansas, or even the universe where his 34th State existed, anymore.

Alfred believes in parallel universes, of course. There is some intriguing scientific theory supporting their existence, beyond the science fiction speculation. He has to admit that his particular situation does seem to be more of the science fiction kind (though who can really say how denser gravity might affect what you have for breakfast or whether you successfully pull off a rebellion and become your own independent country). Either way and in spite of everything else, Alfred can't help being thrilled to personally witness and verify the existence of parallel universes.

It's either that or Alfred is going crazy. And Alfred is not crazy. He has no way to prove it, but he trusts himself on this one. Where he's from, Kansas _is_ the 34th State and "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" won an Oscar for Best Song in 1940. These things Alfred holds dear and true. He recites such things regularly lest they be forgotten; lest he forget himself. Sometimes he goes through the States and their capital cities, other times he does various categories of Oscar winners by year, still other times he reviews the major battles of WWII and their outcomes.

Today, he decides to do #1 singles of the year for the 1990s, according to the Billboard charts. After a rousing version of "Believe" (4 weeks at the top in 1999) in his best Cher imitation, Alfred falls back on the bed and contemplates a crack in the ceiling that, to his disappointment, continues refusing to spread farther.

He doesn't know how he got here, which of course means he doesn't know how to get back. And given that he hasn't been allowed contact with anyone but Arthur since his "retraining" began, Alfred can't count on any help here. It's possible that the Alfred from here is working on a solution over in the universe Alfred himself came from—assuming, of course, that there had been a one-to-one switch, and that someone over in his universe knew anything about what was going on. He wonders how Here-Alfred is doing over there, and _what_ he is doing, thrust into independence and onto the world stage. Well, it'll be interesting when Alfred gets back to his own universe, if he does.

In the meantime, he's making the best of things here. He has another training session with Arthur soon, which at least breaks up the monotony and solitude. Just as it's designed to.

For a while, Matthew had been allowed to visit him. Alfred had enjoyed that, even when Matthew had repeatedly urged him to stop insisting he was a nation. Those were the early days when Alfred still thought he could convince someone here of what had happened and who he really is. He'd kept trying even though all Matthew said in return was, "You're only making things worse for yourself"—which were Arthur's words in Matthew's mouth—and, "Please, Alfred, _stop_ "—which Alfred thought might be Matthew's own addition. At least the "please."

The last time Alfred saw Matthew, Matthew had passed on an explicit message from Arthur: "He says he's going to start all over with you, from the beginning. Your retraining is to commence tomorrow." That was all he would say about it. Alfred figured it probably wasn't military training and certainly hoped it wasn't something like toilet training, though that "from the beginning" had him a little worried.

When it turned out to be sex training, and more specifically training as Arthur's personal sex slave, Alfred hadn't known whether to laugh or to—well, no, he'd just gone and laughed.

That had not gone over well.

It took him a while to figure out that Arthur hasn't created a harem of colonies: it's just Alfred. Alfred made an example of for his failed rebellion, kept around as much to remind the others what fate awaits if they entertain similar aspirations of freedom, as for Arthur's pleasure.

Though Arthur's pleasure is no small part of it.

Alfred had been chagrined when he began to respond to Arthur's pleasure as if it were his own. That's part of why it's so important to do things like reciting the Presidents in chronological order, from George Washington to Barack Obama. There's a place inside Alfred that will _always_ be the United States of America, no matter how Arthur—This-Arthur—comes to occupy him.

 

Even though he's expecting it, has been _waiting_ for it, the knock on the door startles Alfred and he realizes he's been asleep. He doesn't remember falling, but he must have. He rolls himself off the bed, finger-combing his hair back from his face and rubbing at some sleep in the corner of his eye with the pad of his thumb. By the time the bolt slides on the other side and the door opens, Alfred is standing in front of it, smiling.

Arthur doesn't smile in return.

A lit cigarette dangles from one corner of his unsmiling mouth, smoke drifting upwards in a careless curl. His hair is tousled, tie draped undone around his neck, his dress shirt fully unbuttoned and pushed back on one side by the hand casually thrust into his pocket, his other hand somewhere behind him. The waistband of his trousers rides low, the jut of his hipbone exposed. He has come from a tryst. Or so he would like Alfred to think.

Their eyes meet when Alfred drags his gaze up from Arthur's bared torso. Arthur looks at Alfred. He keeps looking.

He just looks, until the smile starts to fade from Alfred's face and a newly familiar heat rises to take its place.

Alfred holds Arthur's hot gaze. He twitches and flickers; he holds himself in Arthur's eyes.

Arthur blinks, so slow and soft it's like a cliché, a fluttering of butterfly wings. A cliché but Alfred still feels it: flutter on the other side of the world, the other side of this gaze, creating a storm in Alfred's blood.

With the next flutter, Arthur opens his mouth and the tip of his tongue, that glossy soft pink tip, licks the underside of his upper lip; and Alfred's bones flutter, they want to bend, _oh_ , something in him wants to bend himself onto his knees before Arthur.

He lets that something overwhelm him, yielding if not entirely surrendering, and starts to bend. Arthur smiles. It's the smallest movement of his mouth, something that's maybe not quite a smile, but Alfred takes it for the yes he has learned to recognize and bends himself; he lets Arthur's eyes bend him. He knees before Arthur, the gaze enveloping him.

Alfred gives over to it as much as he dares.

And then, unwillingly; willingly, a little more:

He falls into Arthur's gaze.

Sometime later—a second, an hour, a lifetime (and this, Alfred says deep inside himself, in the sanctuary of the United States of Himself, is why he can't tell time anymore)—someone passes by behind Arthur, framed in the still-open doorway. Alfred hears the footsteps and knows they exist. But he knows, too, that they are unimportant, and he looks only at Arthur, who is looking only at him.

Then Arthur lifts his hand to draw the cigarette from between this lips, flicks the ashes just so, and Alfred rises wordlessly. He moves back as Arthur comes inside, and by the time the door is clicked shut and locked behind Arthur, Alfred has stripped himself bare.

Holding and held in that gaze, only Alfred's eyes move as Arthur comes to him. When Arthur brings his hidden hand into Alfred's sight, Alfred sees the bag for the first time. Then the bag falls away, and Alfred sees laces and eyelets and the soft black leather of a corset, and he swallows hard, and the swallow twitches his cock harder.

"Bad boy." Arthur laughs, grinds the dropped cigarette beneath his boot heel, and slaps Alfred's cock. "I didn't say you could move yet."

Alfred's cock shudders with the slap; the slap shudders and vibrates all along the underside of Alfred's skin, all over his body, and Alfred bites his lip to keep the hot shivering inside him.

Arthur looks at him, and Alfred knows Arthur sees inside him: sees all the vibrations Alfred can't keep still. Arthur looks at him and Alfred knows what he is. But he waits for Arthur to tell him.

Arthur leans in. His mouth hovers at Alfred's ear. He hovers his breath, soft and warm, and makes Alfred wait for his words, hotter and harder than breath.

And Alfred waits; he waits.

When Arthur's words come, they are soundless. They feel like the blunt edge of bared teeth, digging flat and hard into the yielding flesh of Alfred's earlobe.

It is only because Alfred moves when Arthur's teeth are telling him not to that his flesh tears softly, just a little.

"Bad." Arthur's tongue licks the words, soft and wet, onto Alfred's skin. "My bad boy." His tongue, licking Alfred's blood, dares Alfred to deny the possessive.

When at last Arthur steps back, Alfred trembles in the cold wake of his tongue's heat. Arthur's eyes roam over Alfred's body, inflaming his blood again and now subduing his trembles.

Finally, his eyes come to Alfred's once more. They hold, and hold, and.

"Up."

At that, Alfred lifts his hands overhead into a stretch, stretching himself until the trembles, lulled by Arthur's gaze, reawaken at the brink of strain.

Arthur comes to him again, and again leans in. He breathes against Alfred, rests his lips at the hollow of Alfred's throat, presses his tongue to Alfred's throbbing pulse.

"Take in your breath," Arthur says, moving back only enough to capture Alfred's gaze again. "Don't give it to me until I tell you."

Alfred sucks on the air between them, sucks it in, feels it fill his lungs. Arthur's finger crooks under his chin, nudging, and Alfred bends his head back to offer Arthur his throat.

Still holding his breath, he feels a soft rush of air around him, and then those flutterings are crushed against his skin by soft, solid leather. Arthur takes his time sliding the undone corset around Alfred. Oh, he takes his time, pressing the air flat, squeezing it out so there is nothing left but flush and skin and leather.

Arthur tugs and pulls as he coaxes the stays through the eyelets, lacing up the corset, binding Alfred into the leather. Arthur tugs and pulls and Alfred wants to bend, to be bent, yielded; he wants to fall, if but for a moment.

He holds his breath and waits, and he doesn't fall but he tips with all the tugging and pulling. He finds himself tipped up onto the balls of his feet a little. It's so very small a movement and he tips himself back down quickly, but Arthur has caught it.

Arthur catches him: reaches back and catches Alfred across the crease of thigh and ass, strikes as quickly as Alfred's tipping, harder. Alfred closes his eyes, keeps his head tilted back, his lungs filled; he closes his eyes and feels it—the something that is not a smile, something that is maybe not pleased but is pleasure—he feels it in Arthur's hand.

Another tug, another pull, and Arthur steps back to survey his work. Even with his eyes closed, Alfred knows Arthur is looking at him. He's burning inside but he doesn't look back, he doesn't breathe.

With a touch, Arthur tips Alfred's face down to him. They settle mouth to mouth, Arthur breathing, Alfred not.

"Give." The word is soft but unmistakable, undeniable. Arthur's tongue nudges between Alfred's lips and Alfred lets himself be opened, at long last lets the air out of his lung and up through his throat, Arthur's hand wrapped around it a shade more loosely than the corset around Alfred's torso; Alfred's breath spills over his lips, onto Arthur's, dissipates.

"Good boy," Arthur murmurs. He takes Alfred's lower lip between his teeth as he releases Alfred's throat to tighten the corset more.

A soft grunt escapes Alfred.

Arthur takes a half-step back and looks at him. Alfred holds as still as he can, swallowing the other inarticulate sounds swelling in his throat. Arthur's hand comes up and Alfred waits for the remonstrative slap. But Arthur only brushes his thumb over Alfred's lips. Alfred opens for him. "Yes." Arthur's eyes slit as he flutters his lashes and smiles at Alfred and looks at him like that. The weight of Arthur's half-fluttered lashes could bend him to breaking, Alfred thinks.

"On the bed," Arthur says. Alfred goes over and starts to climb onto it, but Arthur says, "No, just sit there." So Alfred drapes himself open at the edge, braced on his arms stretched behind him, back held in a slight arch, his cock arching more.

The hot shivers start up again and this time Arthur does not soothe them with his gaze. "Back," he says, and Alfred shifts to recline against the headboard. Arthur reaches between his spread legs and runs a fingertip along the underside of Alfred's trembling cock.

"Almost perfect." He neither blinks nor flutters. Held in that glorious gaze, Alfred holds still; he holds his breath, even though Arthur has not asked him to, at least not in words.

"Soft," Arthur says now. "I like it soft and tight." He pinches the tip of Alfred's cockhead, sending a sharp thrill down to Alfred's balls, and then steps back. "I shall return in twenty minutes. I want you to think about that. Think of me, and what I like, and how you want me to find you."

Alfred doesn't breathe again until the door clicks shut behind Arthur.

He breathes, and thinks about Arthur.

He's a good boy sometimes, honestly. He's a good boy now and he thinks about what Arthur likes.

He thinks about Arthur, what Arthur _said_ he likes, and what Arthur _really_ likes.

Alfred thinks he'll be a bad boy.

 

Arms bound overhead and affixed to the ceiling hook, legs held apart by the spreader bar, cock still as diamond-hard as he'd let it get, Alfred thinks he probably could come just from the flogging Arthur is administering to him. He thinks that would please Arthur: to watch Alfred succumb and surrender himself to Arthur's punishment, to Arthur's every whim, to be soft and open when Arthur takes him again and at last.

Yes, Alfred knows he could come right now, if he let himself.

Alabama, 22nd, Montgomery, he tells himself, deciding to go in alphabetical order by state name this time. Alaska, 49th, Juneau. Arizona, 48th, Phoenix. Arkansas, 25th, Little Rock. The rhythm of his internal recitation falls in with the strokes of Arthur's cat-o-nine-tails across his heated flesh.

Ragged breath stuttering and stumbling, Alfred smiles inside as he digs down deep. California, 31st, Sacramento...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Hetalia Kink Meme](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com), for this request: _America (from our world) somehow switches place with the America from an alternate world (one where UK won the war, perhaps, and is still ruling America as a colony). Whether or not they eventually switch back is up to you. One shots, glimpses of the situation on either side of the switch are also very much welcomed. Bonus: Bondage, use of sex toys. Inspired by[this image of seme!UK](http://pm400.sakuraweb.com/aphe/100727-1.jpg)._


End file.
